


Ghosts that Linger

by Nova_Bomb



Series: Deconstruction [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood and Gore, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Wash needs to chill, tucker needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-20 20:49:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16562900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nova_Bomb/pseuds/Nova_Bomb
Summary: When a standard mission takes an unexpected turn, Tucker has to cope with the fact that just because he thinks he's fine doesn't mean it's true.Not all demons are so easily vanquished. Especially the ones with knives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a short story to follow [Deconstruction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7889806/), but it can easily be read as a standalone too.

Tucker tried. It was a valiant fucking effort but this was always a losing battle.

When the combatants of the civil war you’ve been unwittingly dragged into have the maturity level of a bunch of high schoolers, there’s no end to the gossip. The rumours are as abundant as they are outlandish. Most of them must be conceived in joking, but if even the slightest whisper of it spreads so do the ‘what if’s.’ What if it was the resurrected director of the Lord of the Rings that the Reds and Blues fought? What if Lopez is actually human under that helmet? What if Felix isn’t dead and has infiltrated their ranks?

First of all, if Peter Jackson was going to come back from the grave it would have been during the fourth remake of the Lord of the Rings; Lopez has been a disembodied head far too many times to be considered mortal; and of course Felix is dead. Sure, the fact that they never found his body is compelling, until you remember that the only way for Locus to use the sword is if Felix is dead – a detail that Tucker is continually reminding himself.

It’s the rumours that are _true_ you have to watch out for, however. They’re short lived but burn bright and fast, racing like wildfire through the barracks. And these Chorus soldiers? They’re nosy. They’re curious and insatiable and won’t stop until they’ve got an answer. Those rumours don’t last long because it takes a very short time for rumour to be confirmed as fact.

Discretion isn’t in Tucker’s nature, but goddamnit he _did_ try for Wash’s sake.

“So what? Now that Chorus is saved are you and Wash gonna settle down in a little seaside cottage? I guess you’ll have to adopt Caboose cause you sure as shit ain’t leaving him with us.”

“Fuck off, Grif,” Tucker growls through gritted teeth, trying not to lose count of his sit-ups.

They both knew going into this that they wouldn’t be able to keep it under wraps forever, but fuck, Tucker didn’t think the truth would come out quite THAT fast. The Reds picked up on it immediately but that wasn’t unexpected. Despite how lazy and self-centred he is, Grif is as wide as he is perceptive. However, Tucker didn’t think it would be an issue if the Reds found out. What a fucking miscalculation that was. Every one of those dickheads seem to have a rather vocal opinion on the matter. Nothing bad or anything, just annoying comments and constant harassment. Carolina has remained suspiciously tight-lipped, though Tucker’s not sure if she’s said something to Wash about it. Caboose doesn’t treat them any different which is a small comfort until Tucker found out it’s because he thought they were ALREADY together. Great, just fucking great.

Without Felix or Locus or Hargrove to worry about the new, exciting buzz around the base is Tucker and Wash’s relationship. To be honest, it doesn’t particularly bother Tucker. He could give two shits what anyone thinks, but he does give a shit about how it affects Wash.

Glancing across the training room, Tucker spies the Freelancer with his training group, demonstrating how to put three throwing knives into a moving target with laser precision. Jensen is gawking at Wash in awe and Tucker knows the feeling all too well. His boyfriend is fucking _smoking._

Grif, who isn’t even trying to pretend he’s training, groans noisily. “Dude, you’re becoming more like a Freelancer every damn day if you get a hard-on watching Wash throw knives. That’s fucked up.”

Obviously Grif has no idea what he’s talking about. So what if he likes it? How can anyone NOT get hot and bothered seeing Wash like that? Maybe it’s just Tucker, but there’s something real sexy about watching a person do what they’re best at. Though seeing Grif eat is a pretty glaring exception to that rule. That shit’s fucking disgusting.

Tucker finishes his rep of sit-ups before reclining back onto the mat beside Grif. “I’m pretty sure becoming more like a Freelancer is a fucking compliment, dude,” he says between short breaths. The Freelancers were _real_ soldiers. A highly trained team of certified badasses; a hell of a lot cooler than an inept handful of simulation troopers.

Grif turns and levels him with a disbelieving look. “Sure, until you remember Tex and Wyoming and the Meta. Most of the Freelancers were fucking dicks. Wash and Carolina are the only _good_ ones, and by good I mean _haven’t tried to kill us in the last eleven months._ ”

Okay, Grif may have a point there but Tucker’s not about to admit it. “You’re just jealous that I’m a fucking badass now.”

The other sim trooper snorts at that. “Give it up, Tucker. As long as you’re standing next to Washington, you’re always going to be a loser like the rest of us.”

Tucker’s anger sparks as he turns to glare at Grif. “Fuck you, fat ass.”

“What was that?” he goads. “I can’t hear you with Wash’s dick in your mouth.”

Oh, is that how he wants to play this? A dark smile creeps across Tucker’s face as he drops his voice to a low murmur. “More of a mouthful than yours, from what Simmons told me.”

Now that. That shuts him up.

Grif’s expression teeters somewhere between outrage and disbelief, and Tucker offers a wink before pulling himself up off the mat.

Sauntering over to the bench, Tucker snatches up his canteen and takes a long drink. He looks back to Wash as the Freelancer is still struggling to correct Palomo’s form. He likes to think Wash’s newfound patience is born partly from Tucker’s insufferable attitude towards the Freelancer’s training routines. Really, Wash should be thanking him because the rumours of Robo-Wash have gone down significantly. It’s been a long time since Tucker stopped drinking that military kool-aid: all the conditioning and rhetoric they shove down your throat to turn you into an obedient little soldier. Wash may not be lining up at the proverbial UNSC punch bowl, but he’s still nursing a drink. That’s why Tucker loves to push, to whittle down those carefully crafted walls because Wash is just as human as the rest of them, and one day he’ll realize that he doesn’t need those walls anymore.

The training door opens beside him, startling Tucker out of his thoughts.

A familiar face pokes through, keen eyes landing directly on him. Dr. Grey smiles brightly. “Ah, Captain Tucker! Just who I was looking for.”

Now that’s never a good sign, especially when she’s blocking his only path of escape. Ever since Epsilon exploded in his head, the good doctor has been hounding him about therapy and psyche evaluations. It was a rough ride; turns out having seven different AI all crammed into your skull at once is a bad idea. Go figure. But it’s been ages since his last hallucination and the nightmares are far less frequent than before. He’s been fine. No need for any more poking and prodding from the mad doctor.

Grey must read the panic in his eyes because her eyebrow quirks with amusement. “Don’t worry Captain, I haven’t come to chase you down for any more tests, though you are always welcome to come speak to me about any concerns.”

“Uh, I’m good, thanks,” he offers, hoping it’s enough to deter her. “Did you need something?”

An unsettling grin spreads across the Doctor’s face. “Have you forgotten already?”

She steps fully into the training room now and Tucker sees two very familiar shapes. “Holy shit! Are those what I think they are?!”

Grey holds up a sword in each hand. “Ta daaah!”

When Tucker asked Dr. Grey if they could use the high-tech, medical grade 3D printer to make training replicas of his energy sword he never expected her to say yes.

“Now I made the blade as light as I could without compromising the structural integrity. There’s a five pound weight in the hilt so it should have roughly the same balance as your energy blade.” Grey thrusts one of the swords towards him. “Try it out! What do you think?”

“Ah hell yeah!”

Tucker takes the blade, wrapping his fingers around the familiarly shaped hilt. It’s identical in size and shape, thanks to the fancy fucking scanner Grey used. With a couple of rapid slashes through the air, he finds there’s a bit more weight and resistance than he’s used to but it’s damn close. He grins like a kid on Christmas morning. “This is awesome! You sure this isn’t like a waste of military resources or something Kimball might yell at me for?”

She beams back at him as she hands him the other sword. “Oh, it’s not a problem at all. I’ve been informed that it’s not ethical to use the melted down prosthetic bones of the deceased to make new ones so this was a great way to reuse and recycle!”

Tucker is only half listening, swinging one sword in each hand now. “Haha, yeah. Wait, what?”

“Well, I should be off!” she announces, ignoring his confused stare altogether. “The UNSC sent a medical resupply ship the other day, so I have lots of immunizations to give. Better get stabbing!”

Tucker watches her disappear through the door and wonders if he’ll ever encounter a medical professional who isn’t bat shit crazy. The thought doesn’t linger long, however, because _holy shit, look at these things!_

Swinging the blades about, Tucker can’t keep the grin off his face.

Grif is still sitting on the mats, shaking his head in solemn disapproval and honestly, fuck those bad vibes. Looking to Wash instead, Tucker bounds across the training room towards him. He’s still struggling with Palomo’s poor listening skills as Tucker rushes over. “Hey! Hey, Wash!”

There’s almost a hint of relief in his eyes, and Tucker can see the thinly veiled exasperation in his clenched jaw.

Turning back to his group, Wash barks out, “Everyone take five, and then we’re back at it.” A series of groans is the only reply, but for once Wash doesn’t seem fazed by the lack of an affirmative response.

Before he can get a word in, Tucker is already shoving one of the training blades into the Freelancer’s hands. “Dude, check these out! This is what Grey was working on for me! They’re fucking great.”

Wash raises his eyebrows as he inspects the replica. “It’s impressive, though I’m surprised Grey was willing to sacrifice the materials on training weapons.”

Tucker scoffs. “Don’t be such a buzzkill. Besides, Grey said it was fine. They’re made of recycled dead people or something.”

“Recycled what?!”

“Dude, come on!” Tucker whines. He’d hoped for a little more enthusiasm. “This is an experience of a lifetime here! Give it a swing!”

Wash smirks and rolls his eyes, but he does comply. He tests the balance of the weapon in his hands before giving a few short, experimental swings. “And it’s similar enough to your actual sword to be an effective training weapon?” he inquires, looking to Tucker.

“Oh, yeah!” he grins. “Now we can have fucking Jedi battles. It’s gonna be great.”

The Freelancer frowns slightly at that. “These aren’t toys, Tucker. They’re for _real_ training.”

“Uhhh, isn’t that what I just said?” he gripes. “I don’t think it would be that hard for you to work into my training program. Oh, shit! Can we officially block it in the schedule as Jedi training? I swear I’ll never be late for a single session.”

Wash abruptly looks uncomfortable with the sword in his hand, shifting his weight as he tries to return it. “I don’t know if I’m really the person to be teaching you this type of thing.”

Tucker’s excitement grinds to a halt and he makes no move to take the sword from Wash’s waiting hand. “What?! Why the hell not? You went up against Felix when he had a sword, and yeah maybe you’ve never used one, but I’ll bet you fifty bucks you’re still probably better at it than me.”

Wash frowns as he gives his head a slight shake. “That was knife evasion more than anything. Besides, any training you get from me probably isn’t proper form-”

Tucker cuts him off. “Come on, Wash. You think I give a shit about proper form?”

“I’m just not comfortable teaching something I don’t completely understand myself,” Wash reasons with an exasperated sigh.

Tucker reaches out to take back the training sword but lets his hand linger on Wash’s. “You don’t need to be the expert on everything, Wash,” he tells him. “I just need a sparring partner.”

The Freelancer lets the contact continue for a few beats more before snatching his hand back, glancing about the training room anxiously. “Alright, but that doesn’t mean I’m letting you drop knife evasion lessons. It will come in handy if-”

“Yeah, yeah, if Felix comes back from the grave to skin my ass,” Tucker snarks back.

Wash looks entirely unimpressed with the comment. “I’m serious, Tucker. It’s an important skill. We’ve made good progress but you’ve still got a long way to go. There are far more stab-happy mercs than just Felix out there.”

This time Tucker rolls his eyes. “What, you mean like you?”

Wash sputters. “What?! I’m not-”

“I’m kidding, Wash. I got it.” Before the Freelancer can open his mouth to lecture him further, he leans in and plants one directly on Wash’s lips. “I’ll see you later!”

Agent Washington stares back dumbfounded as Tucker quickly turns and marches out of the training room, grinning the whole way.

 

* * *

 

It takes the better part of the afternoon for Wash to quell the stubborn flush in his cheeks and even longer to wrangle control over his training session. He’s positive that herding cats would be easier than trying to bring order to a group of unruly twenty-somethings.

What was Tucker thinking?

Washington isn’t naïve enough to still believe they can keep their relationship a secret, but that doesn’t give them leave to abandon all professionalism. There are reasons for fraternization regulations in the UNSC, and Tucker may be wilfully dense at times but he _does_ know these things.

In retribution for their childish behaviour, Wash makes his training group run laps well into dinnertime. He might have kept them going longer but his own schedule demanded his presence elsewhere.

Gnawing on a stale ration bar as he goes, Wash makes his way to the war room for tomorrow’s mission briefing. He’s two minutes ahead of schedule when he steps into the room, but the lights are already dimmed and the group is clustered around the holo-display. A 3D blueprint of the base projects from the tabletop and Kimball gives the Freelancer a nod before beginning her briefing. Wash moves to stand beside Carolina, spying Tucker and Grif on the other side of the room. Though Tucker offers a small wave, Washington pretends not to notice and focuses on Kimball’s review.

The plan is straightforward enough. They’re headed to an emptied munitions repository to root out a group of pirates. Though they’re not expecting a ton of resistance, they’re sending plenty of muscle just in case. With Hargrove in the hands of the UNSC and Charon Industries under criminal investigation, it’s not a great time to be a space pirate. As always, Kimball stresses the policy to spare any pirates who voluntarily surrender; it’s a nice thought but hasn’t really gained much traction among the criminals. Most of them would rather die than surrender at this point. Wash certainly doesn’t have an issue granting that wish for them and neither do most of the Chorus militants. Barring any major surprises, the mission should be simple enough. They’re not rationing ammo anymore, with the UNSC restocking their weapon supplies, so for once it will be the other guys scrambling to form a rag-tag opposition.

As Kimball recaps the mission teams, Wash fails to notice Tucker as he sneaks his way over.

“The leaders of Team Bravo, on the second pelican, are Agent Washington and Captain Tucker-”

Someone clears their throat loudly behind him, and there’s suddenly an arm thrown over his shoulders. Wash might have broken the offending limb if it wasn’t clad in aqua-blue kevlar.

“Uh, I think you mean Team Power Couple!” Tucker proclaims triumphantly.

Without her helmet on there’s no hiding the narrowed eyes and reprimanding glare she gives both of them before continuing as though Tucker hadn’t spoken at all.

The second the room’s attention is diverted, Wash roughly shrugs off Tucker’s arm. Beneath his helmet his cheeks are burning red and Wash tries to keep a tight grip on his anger.

Tucker flinches back and hisses under his breath. “Dude? What the fuck? Chill out!”

“Don’t do that again,” Wash growls.

“It was a joke, Wash. What’s your-?”

“Are you two quite finished?” Kimball demands, her voice ringing in the crowded room. “Another word out of turn from either of you and we’ll be finding some other _power couple_ to take your place on the mission. Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wash responds, in time with Tucker’s far less enthusiastic response. He does not spare another word or glance at the sim trooper for the rest of the briefing.

When they’re dismissed Wash turns on his heel and marches past Tucker, out of the war room. Though the embarrassed flush in his cheeks has finally gone, Wash is still fuming. Tucker follows close behind him, maintaining an air of nonchalance as they make their way towards the barracks.

As soon as they’re alone inside their shared room, Wash locks the door behind them. He takes a long moment to collect his thoughts as Tucker starts stripping out of his armour behind him. Communication: they said from the beginning they would both try to be more open with their feelings and communicate with one another. Unfortunately, following through is far harder than making that initial promise.

After a minute to rein in his temper, Wash pulls off his helmet and turns to face him. “Tucker, we need to have a talk about your professionalism.”

The sim trooper in question is wrestling off his chest piece when he looks up at Wash. “Ugh. Can’t we just fuck instead? That’s way more fun.”

Wash scarcely resists the urge to punch a wall. “This is what I’m talking about! It’s all a game to you! We can’t be making out in the training room or holding hands on missions-”

“Okay, first of all that was _not_ making out, but don’t rule it out just yet. I have fantasies you know-”

“Tucker!!”

The sim trooper is on his feet then. “Okay, okay,” he placates. Tucker walks over to where he’s standing and plants his hands on Wash’s hips. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? Can we just ditch the armour and guns and talk about this in bed?”

Damn him. Wash isn’t ready to let this go, but he can feel the rage fading as Tucker stares up at him with those dark, imploring eyes of his. The exhaustion of the day catches up with Wash all at once and he releases a deep sigh. “Yeah, okay.”

The two of them finish removing their armour in silence as the tension in the room defuses. They both cram into Wash’s single bunk. Lying flush against the wall, Tucker huddles in beside him, throwing an arm across Wash’s torso to keep from falling off.

“Dude, your bed is so damn small,” Tucker mumbles into the Freelancer’s shirt.

“What was I thinking?” Wash deadpans as he stares up at the roof. “Let’s just switch over to your _identically sized_ bed.”

Tucker scoffs. “Nah, man. I mean we should just push our beds together.”

Wash rolls his eyes. “We’re not pushing our beds together.”

“Why not?” Tucker challenges. He sounds genuinely perplexed and Wash can’t believe he has to explain this.

“Seriously? It’s not appropriate, Tucker-”

“Dude, I’m pretty sure this is the one place it’s _totally_ appropriate.” He snorts a laugh as he lifts his head to murmur in Wash’s ear. “You say that like you didn’t fuck me right here in this bed, yesterday.”

“TUCKER!!”

The sim trooper sits up now so he can stare down at him. “Wash, chill the fuck out! Who cares? Everyone already knows. Why is this such a big deal?”

There’s blood pooling in his face for the umpteenth time today, and Wash adamantly avoids Tucker’s eyes. “I’m your CO. It’s inappropriate to have relations with a subordinate.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows he’s said the wrong thing. Tucker goes silent, and Wash starts agonizing over how bad that sounded and-

“Wash.” Tucker’s hand moves to his jaw, turning his head so their eyes meet. A smile breaks across the sim trooper’s face as his fingers brush lightly against Wash’s pulse point. “Come on, dude. You know I barely listened to your orders before. Besides, the war is over.”

He opens his mouth to protest but Tucker doesn’t let him. “Yeah, yeah, I know there’s still a lot of cleanup and shit to do, but fuck, man. Can we just call it close enough?”

Taking a moment to mull over his words, Wash blows out an exhausted sigh. He pulls Tucker down to lie against him and mumbles against the top of his head. “Yeah. We can do that.”

“Look, if PDA isn’t your style or whatever that’s cool,” Tucker says. He sounds sheepish all of a sudden as his fingers toy with the hem of Wash’s shirt. “I can tone it down. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable or whatever. I just don’t want everyone to think we’re ashamed or something, you know?”

There’s a swoop in Washington’s chest, an airiness that expands and unfurls with each thump of his heart, and for a moment it’s a little like zero-g training. Everything is weightless and floating, and there’s nothing dragging him down. Not the war. Not the mission. Just this idiot sim trooper holding him tight and lifting him up. It’s been a very long time since Wash has felt this light.

He tilts Tucker’s chin up to press their lips together in a long, lingering kiss before settling back in again, breathing deep and content in the darkness. Tucker grumbles at the lack of response but nestles closer to Wash regardless as they both eventually find their way to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a comment and let me know what you think so far!  
> More to come very soon!  
> Love y'all. <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back from the grave.

“Standard mission, Kimball said! Shouldn’t be resistance at all, she said! You fuckers can suck my dick!!”

Tucker shouts over the sound of his rifle as he fires at the group of pirates cowering inside the warehouse entrance.

The mission that was supposed to be a cakewalk has been nothing of the sort. The pirates are dug in far deeper than anyone anticipated with just enough scraps to make themselves a nuisance. Oh, and the fucking cherry on top? Those shit heads have anti-air turrets.

Everyone on Alpha team survived the shaky, emergency landing with only a few bumps and bruises, but it’s still not an inspiring start to the mission. That being said, it feels far different to be on the other side of things. For them to have to have the upper hand for once - the numbers and the resources. At least now these pirates get to see what it feels like to cower and count their meager bullets as they fight for their lives. Unfortunately desperation makes them dangerous.

One of the pirates suddenly breaks from cover, screaming as he charges with his shotgun.

Tucker puts two three-round bursts into the guy’s chest but he still doesn’t drop. “Shit, shit!” His clip’s empty and he reaches for his sword, but the pirate pumps his shotgun and-

A heavy pistol shot punches through the guy’s helmet and he drops to the ground. Wash jogs out of nowhere, hurling a grenade precisely into the doorway and it might be the best throw ever, of all time. The pirates can’t scatter fast enough and they’re caught in the blast as shrapnel slices through air, armour and flesh.

Tucker barely manages to duck behind the concrete barrier he was using as cover.

Wash reloads his pistol before giving him an assessing look. “You good?”

“Better now!” Tucker grins behind his helmet. “You ready for a little close quarters?” he asks as he tips his head in the direction of the wrecked doorway.

This is the part where Wash is supposed to say something cool like “Fuck, yeah,” or “I was born ready,” but instead he radios the others to tell them they’re moving in. Picking up the pirate’s shotgun, Wash checks the barrel before glancing back at Tucker. “You coming?”

Tucker sighs at the missed opportunity but he does follow. He reloads his rifle and steps over the bodies in the doorway before swinging his rifle around the hall, scanning for movement. It’s impossible to hear footsteps with the shouting and gunfire going on outside but hopefully that means the pirates can’t hear them either. You know, if they somehow missed the grenade that went off.

Wash leads the way. They proceed through an unremarkable section of halls until they reach a large set of double doors that open up to the main warehouse. The interior is a maze of shipping containers, long since cleaned out by the looks of them. They’re about to round one of the crates when Wash abruptly shoots an arm out, catching Tucker across the chest. The Freelancer puts a finger to the mouth of his visor, signalling for quiet before he darts out around the corner.

Tucker rushes to follow, but his efforts are in vain because Wash is already backing up behind the crate again, only he isn’t alone.

The pirate struggles and thrashes but Wash has an arm around his throat, crushing his windpipe. Eventually, his fighting slows and the man goes limp in Wash’s grip.

Keying his radio to Wash’s private COM frequency, Tucker asks, “Dude, is it wrong to be turned on when you use your ninja skills to kill a guy?”

The Freelancer’s gaze darts towards him and he nearly drops the body he was carefully lowering to the floor. “I didn’t kill him! I just subdued him and YES it’s wrong!”

He shrugs. “Then I don’t want to be right-”

“Tucker, quit messing around!” Wash snaps. “There’s gotta be more of them holed up in here. Let’s establish a perimeter. You take left and I’ll take right. Understood?”

Too bad for Wash, Tucker also likes it when he gets all tactical and uses his _drop and give me 50_ voice. “Sir, yes sir!” he replies with a wink.

Wash can’t see it but he knows it’s there. This time the Freelancer just flips him off before walking away, leaving Tucker to fight back a laugh.

Turning back to the task at hand, he starts his sweep around the left side of the warehouse. Though the containers are loosely organized in aisles and columns, there’s still a lot of places for shitty pirates to hide. Tucker would give his left arm for a working motion tracker. Good thing these guys are stupid enough to give themselves away.

There’s a loud clatter, the sound of ammunition spilling across the floor and a hissing voice. “Dammit, Walker!”

Tucker double checks his ammo count before pressing forward as quietly as possible.

“Oh sorry, let me just find the person who made this shoddy packaging and give them a stern talking to. What do you want from me, Trevor?”

“I want you to lower your fucking voice!”

Too little too late for these boneheads. The sound is coming from the interior of one of the shipping crates and Tucker strafes along the outside as he tries to pinpoint which one. Good thing the idiots have their helmet lights on too.

“Who the fuck cares, we’re all dead on this stupid planet anyway.”

“You’re gonna be dead a lot sooner if you don’t CAN IT.”

“Did you know I only had three more months to serve? I was in there for tax evasion! THREE MONTHS and I woulda been off that goddamn prison ship. No stupid mercenaries, no stupid planet.”

“You could have gotten off ship with everyone else who didn’t want to join.”

“Oh sure, Trevor! The cold vacuum of space would have been a great alternative!”

Tucker’s heard about all he cares for. Throwing caution to the wind, he races forward and slams the door closed before the pirates can even lift their weapons. The sound echoes through the warehouse, but Tucker only grins as he succeeds in locking the container from the outside.

The pirates bang on the door, voices muffled by two inches of solid steel. “Hey! Let us out, man! That’s not fair.”

“Sorry, dudes!” Tucker calls back. “You can surrender later if I remember where I left ya.”

The pirates continue to bang and shout their protests, but Tucker just laughs as he presses on. He’s really blown Wash’s stealth approach but hey, every covert ops needs a distraction right? He can hear footsteps from somewhere down the next aisle, and Tucker steps lightly as he hugs the nearest crate to peer around the corner, weapon ready.

Tucker isn’t prepared for what he sees, knees instantly locking up beneath him.

The armour is unmistakable. Slate grey with sharp slashes of orange, even with his back turned Tucker would recognize it anywhere. There’s a faint rattling sound and it takes him a moment to realize it’s his rifle shaking in his hands.

Felix is dead. Tucker knows he’s dead and maybe he’s finally lost his mind, eating expired MREs has rotted out his brain. But when he steps out of cover and the merc spins to face him, that familiar, dreaded helmet glares back at him with its narrow visor.

Tucker lets his gun fall from his hands and he’s running.

He thinks Wash might be saying something to him over the COMs but he can’t respond. His vision tunnels and shrinks until it’s just him and Felix. His sword sparks to life like lightning in his hand.

The merc fires his gun wildly, his aim wide and sloppy and entirely unlike Felix. A single shot finds its mark, punching through the armour of his left bicep but Tucker doesn’t stop. The merc pulls a knife and still Tucker doesn’t stop. It’s the radio jammer all over again; his friends are hurt, there’s a knife in Felix’s hand and despite the abject horror screaming in the back of his head, Tucker _can’t_ stop.

But then there’s the other part of him. A part of him that’s standing in the training room with Wash, going through the same motions over and over and _for fuck’s sake, haven’t we practiced this enough already?_

Tucker drops the hilt of his sword and catches the wrist holding the knife. He twists hard and directs it away from himself just like Wash taught him, muscle memory guiding him through.

The sound of the knife clattering to the floor is loud in his ears but Tucker keeps moving as he grabs the merc around the waist and tackles him to the ground. Felix thrashes beneath him, fighting back but Tucker starts punching and doesn’t stop. It’s the quietest this mouthy merc has ever been and maybe Tucker crushed his windpipe with the first blow to the throat. It would be suiting, he thinks.

Tucker struggles to tear off Felix’s helmet so he can hit him directly in his smug face. The merc desperately fights to stop him but Tucker’s fingers find the pressure seals and he pries the helmet off, tossing it aside.

He doesn’t even pause before he resumes punching.

 

* * *

 

Wash hears the slam of heavy metal doors and freezes. The sound reverberates through the warehouse, bouncing violently off every container until the echo falls silent.

Even under his helmet Wash hardly breathes, listening close for any sound of approaching footsteps. There’s a faint voice but at this distance, and the terrible acoustics of the warehouse, it’s impossible to make out words. Wash adjusts his grip on his gun and presses on, heading toward the source of the commotion.

He moves fast and quiet between the containers, no sign of pirates yet. The Freelancer radios Tucker as he gets closer. “That wasn’t you, was it?” he demands.

There’s no immediate response and before Wash can try again, he hears a shot.

Three more shots.

Five.

“Tucker! Do you copy?!”

Wash is sprinting now, stealth forgotten as he races towards the origin of the shots. That’s not Tucker’s rifle and he hears no return fire. “Talk to me, Tucker!”

He rounds one of the containers and Wash spots the familiar aqua armour and another pirate…

Wash freezes.

The pirate is wearing Felix’s armour.

Tucker abandons his sword, and a knife sails from the pirate’s grip as the sim trooper wrestles him to the ground. He starts slamming his fists into the pirate’s head and Wash rushes to help.

He tries the COMs again. “Tucker!”

There’s no response and he just keeps punching. Felix’s helmet is flung aside and he doesn’t stop. By the time Wash gets close there’s blood painted across his armour and the pirate has stopped moving. It’s a gruesome contrast to the bright aqua-blue. His hands and arms are covered to the elbow, and it’s spattered across his chest and visor, shining deep red. For a moment Wash can only stare in his shock, transfixed by the scene in front of him.

Agent Washington has seen his share of violence. He fought in the Covenant war. He’s stepped over the bodies of civilians butchered and mangled in the streets by packs of Brute berserkers, fought Sangheili zealots drenched with the blood of his fellow marines. Even in the violence between humans, Wash has seen his partner’s white armour coated with red more than once.

But this is Tucker. This is a soldier who never made it past Simulation Outpost Alpha until the war was over. _I’m a lover not a fighter._ Wash knows Tucker can fight when he needs to. He survived months in the desert, fought off a squad of Insurrectionists on his own and on Chorus Wash has seen just how far he’s come. But this? Brutality is not in the sim trooper’s repertoire and it honest to god scares him.

He’s finally stopped punching and Wash is slow to approach. Staring down at the dead pirate, the sim trooper’s chest heaves with every laboured breath and doesn’t even seem to notice Wash.

“Tucker,” he tries.

Nothing.

“Tucker, can you hear me?”

The sim trooper’s visor snaps up to look at him, flinching back in surprise. “Wash?”

His gaze drops down to his hands and the dead man below him. Tucker’s entire body goes stiff before he’s scrambling away. His hands leave red smears on the concrete and his boots scrape across the floor. “It was- I didn’t- I- I… what the fuck?!”

The sim trooper backs against one of the crates and Wash kneels down in front of him, putting himself between Tucker and his view of the dead pirate. Wash sets a gentle hand on his shoulder, trying to steady him. “Tucker.”

He looks up from his hands. “Wash, I- I-”

“Tucker!” he repeats, firmer this time as he grips his shoulder hard. “Are you with me?”

Even through the kevlar Wash can see his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “Yes- yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

He is most definitely not good but it’ll have to do for now, at least until they clear this place and get the hell out. There’s a bullet wound in his arm but otherwise he doesn’t seem to have taken fire. He was lucky. Wash is about to open his mouth to reprimand him but he can see the way Tucker’s hands are shaking so he says nothing. He grabs him by the forearm and pulls Tucker to his feet before unsnapping the healing unit from his own armour and slotting it into the sim trooper’s. For once he doesn’t even make a complaint about it.

Tucker’s gaze has turned back to the body on the floor, red mingling with orange and grey as the blood pools across the concrete.

Wash grabs the discarded sword hilt and the pirate’s pistol. He clips the sword back to Tucker’s thigh and slaps the pistol into his hand. “We need to clear the warehouse meet back up with the others.”

The reply comes out hesitant, but he does look away from the dead imposter and follows Wash. “Okay.”

As they move through the warehouse Wash opens a private channel to Carolina.

“Hey, boss?”

“What is it?” she asks urgently, immediately picking up on his grim tone.

“We ran into a pirate wearing Felix’s scavenged armour.”

“Where?”

“Second warehouse. South side near the cargo doors.”

“On my way.”

As they continue their sweep, they don’t encounter any more pirates. Tucker is all but silent unless Wash asks him a direct question and he only gets restrained, single word answers in reply. He keeps smearing blood across his armour in an idle attempt to clear it away, but there’s too much and he only makes it worse.

A short distance further, Wash spots a locker room and he abruptly drags him inside. After a swift check, he finds the place is empty. Wash moves to one of the showers and turns on the water before stepping back and looking at Tucker expectantly.

The sim trooper just stares back in confusion. There’s no jokes about shower sex or anything, and that might be even more unsettling than the red stains on his armour.

“To wash off the blood,” Wash supplies, fighting to keep his own voice steady.

“Oh. Right.”

Tucker thrusts his arms into the spray and the majority of the gore drips off of him, swirling down the drain in bright, red rivulets.

That’s about the time Carolina gets back to him, her voice almost trembling as it comes in over the radio. “Wash… did you...?”

“Tucker,” he answers simply, watching the sim trooper standing under the weak spray.

There’s a long pause. “Tucker did this?”

“Yeah. I think… I think we should get rid of that armour. For good.”

“The helmet for sure,” she agrees, “but the rest could be resprayed and put to use for someone else.”

Wash isn’t keen on seeing that armour again in any colour but concedes. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Tucker finally steps out of the water looking far better than before but he remains distant for the remainder the mission. When they link back up with the others, the rest of the base has been secured. There’s a few surrendered pirates but most of them were unwilling to be taken into custody. Only minor injuries at least, Tucker’s is among the worst of it. Overall, the mission is a success but Wash can’t shake the uneasiness humming beneath his skin.

Carolina and Grif rendezvous with the group with a tarp bundled around the armour. Luckily Tucker doesn’t appear to notice. It’s a tight fit with one less Pelican than they set out with and a couple new prisoners.

With no one paying any mind to Wash and Tucker in the corner, he risks grabbing onto the sim trooper’s hand and squeezes tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so sad because that space pirate probably thought he'd hit the jackpot. All those other suckers running around in lame looking armour, but this guy found the unicorn. Sure he had to pry Felix's stinky corpse out of it, but his sweet new armour is awesome, right?
> 
> Wrongo


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wash is always there to pick up the pieces. Always will be.

It’s gotta be the painkillers that Grey shot him up with when she patched his arm because Tucker is way out of whack. Everything is hazy and far away, like watching the world go by while you’re trapped behind a dirty plexiglass window. Maybe his visor still has blood on it or something.

Tucker does his best not to think about what happened in the warehouse. It’s over. There’s no changing it and it doesn’t matter. At least that’s what he keeps telling himself as he tries to banish the image of the pirate’s face when he was finished with it. Nausea churns his stomach and holy shit he could use a fucking gravol or something.

With Wash at his side he goes through the mission debrief, nodding and replying at the appropriate intervals. The Freelancer mentions the pirate in Felix’s scavenged armour but glosses over the details, and Tucker appreciates it. What he doesn’t appreciate is how overly cautious Wash is being, like one wrong word will make him snap again. In reality he knows that’s not the case, Wash is just trying to help, but it rankles all the same.

Of course everyone else knows now too. Another rumour confirmed.

“Hey, I heard you pulped that guy in Felix’s armour. Pretty fucking metal, dude.” Grif says this between bites of his dinner, giving Tucker a look that leans more towards apprehension than admiration.

Tucker pushes his meal around his plate wishing it was anything but meatloaf.

“Good on ya, son,” Sarge commends. “Always gotta go for the brain when dealing with the undead.”

“But it wasn’t actually Felix, right?” Donut hazards.

“Not anymore,” Sarge confirms, his tone grim. “Once you turn all that’s left is the hunger.”

Simmons rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t a zombie. It was just some guy who lucked out and found Felix’s armour.”

“I wouldn’t say he was  _ that  _ lucky,” Grif mutters. “Looks like you still got a bit of him left on ya.”

He gestures towards Tucker’s forearm and sure enough there are bits of dried blood still clinging between the edges of his armour. His chair screeches noisily across the floor as Tucker stands, done with supper. 

“You want the rest, Grif?”

The sim trooper is already pulling the tray across the table toward him. “Is that even a question?”

Picking up his helmet, Tucker hears Wash call out his name behind him but he doesn’t stop. He almost makes it out of there too before there’s a hand on his arm, and he turns to see the Freelancer staring back at him.

His brows are drawn in a worried frown as he opens his mouth to speak. “Tucker-”

“Dude, will you just fuck off?” His own temper catches him off guard, Wash too if the look on his face is any indication. “Quit handling me with kid gloves. If you’ve got something to say, then say it. Otherwise just leave me alone.”

Tucker can see the hurt there in Wash’s eyes but he takes his hand off his arm all the same and lets the sim trooper walk away.

Between the annoyance and the painkiller haze in his brain, Tucker walks to the barracks in a blur. He heads straight for the showers. The place is mostly empty, the majority of soldiers in the mess hall, but a few do startle as Tucker storms into the room in full power armour.

He heads to the furthest stall at the back of the room, ripping back the curtain and cranking the faucet. Each piece of armour he removes hits the tile floor with an aggressive  _ clank. _ He strips out of his drive suit leaving him just in his briefs as he sits down on the damp floor and sets to work.

The water patters loud against the multilayer alloy as Tucker holds a shin plate beneath the cold spray. Even there he finds flecks of blood that didn’t wash away before. Using his fingernails he digs between the crevices of each piece, wishing he had the foresight to snag an old toothbrush or something. The icy water rains down on his legs and seeps through his briefs. His arms are prickling with goosebumps but Tucker doesn’t care. He’s methodical as he cleans each piece and sets it aside.

It seems like a design flaw, for his armour to have so many holes and ridges for grime to collect. He’ll have to send the UNSC a product review or something.  _ It doesn’t have shields and the washing instructions are bullshit: two-and-a-half stars. _

Going over his gauntlet for a third time he’s still finding bits of blood hiding between every little joint and edge. This shit is getting to be too much of a Lady Macbeth situation and Tucker curses through chattering teeth.

He just wants it gone. Is that really so much to ask? He’s going to have to live with the vivid memories long enough; he doesn’t need the blood on his armour as a reminder too. Thinking back on it, Tucker tries to pinpoint the exact moment he lost control, where it all went wrong, because that’s not a performance he cares to repeat. Beating faces into paste was Tex’s MO.

Grif’s words come back to haunt him.  _ Dude, you’re becoming more like a Freelancer every damn day. _

Tucker doesn’t feel like badass anymore. This is exactly something that Tex or the Meta, or even Felix or Locus might do. Probably  _ did _ do. He doesn’t want to be lumped into the same category as them - ANY of them. He’s not a monster. But he's not blind either. 

There was no missing the way that Wash, Carolina and even the Reds were staring at him. Like he’s something dangerous and unhinged. Like they’re afraid. Tucker doesn’t want to do this all over again. Epsilon broke and Tucker broke but he’s okay now. He’s SUPPOSED to be okay now and this isn’t helping. But there was so much blood and Tucker can’t blame his friends one bit. They might be scared of him but Tucker is fucking terrified. He can’t even remember what the pirate’s face looked like, before he smashed it into a featureless mass of meat and blood and broken bone.

The image makes Tucker’s stomach churn, and he redoubles his efforts to scrub his gauntlets clean.

It’s quiet in the showers. The last of the shower occupants have long since fled. Tucker hadn’t really noticed. Even now he’s still too focused to hear the soft footfalls approaching down the line of stalls. It’s not until someone speaks up in a soft voice that he realizes he isn’t alone anymore.

“Tucker.” 

Of course it’s Wash.

He mutters a half-hearted, “Hey,” over his shoulder but doesn’t turn. Just keeps scrubbing.

Wash doesn’t move for several long seconds. Eventually, Tucker hears something like a sigh and the Freelancer starts edging around him. He steps into the stall far enough to reach the faucet. The spray soaks into his fatigues but he flips it all the way to hot before withdrawing again.

Tucker resists the impulse to yank himself from under the spray. The water is warmer than he would have expected but not painfully so. Maybe he should start taking all his showers late at night when the water is actually hot.

Wash sinks down behind him, legs bracketing Tucker’s as he presses himself against the sim trooper’s back. Between Wash and the warm water, any trace of his previous chill vanishes and Tucker all but halts his ministrations as the Freelancer wraps his arms around his waist.

Tucker is still shivering but it’s not from the cold. Something comes unravelled in his chest, and he can’t stop his limbs from shaking as his heart races in his chest. Everything is pulled taut, a rubber band stretched to its snapping point, and for the life of him Tucker doesn’t know  _ why. _

The red is gone from his armour but the blood is  _ still there. _ Every time he closes his eyes he can see his hands and arms drenched in red. Each breath he draws catches and snags on the barbed wire coiled in his throat, but the Freelancer at his back just holds him tighter, whispering comforts in his ear.

“I’ve got you, Tucker. You’re good. We’re good.”

It’s a hollow laugh that stutters out of his chest. “This is so stupid.”

Because it really is. It’s not like he attacked some random civilian and pounded their face into mulch. It was a goddamn SPACE PIRATE.  A criminal and a murderer who would have been happy to kill Tucker and every one of his friends without a second thought. He did try, if he hadn’t been such a terrible shot, and Tucker’s arm aches with the reminder. That man  _ deserved  _ to die. So why does he feel like a monster?

Honestly, he’s still expecting a lecture from Wash, but it never comes. The Freelancer rests his chin on Tucker’s shoulder, stubble tickling his neck. Wash’s hands smooth up and down his ribs, as though he can quell the shaking by holding him tighter. “You’re not a monster,” he murmurs.

Tucker didn’t even realize he said that bit aloud, and something like a sob wracks his chest. The gauntlet drops from his grip and buries his face in his hands. “I just- I couldn’t stop, Wash. I thought. I thought it was him a-and I couldn’t stop.”

After he pried off that scout helmet there was nothing. No thought and no hesitation. Just the rage and the pain in his knuckles as he stuck the man’s face over and over again. The sickening rhythm in a macabre symphony of dying pleas, all falling upon Tucker’s deaf ears.

His voice shakes. “What if-?” and he hates it. HATES the thought that enters his mind. The sickening possibility of it all. “What if it hadn't been some pirate? What if some Fed scout or one of the Lieutenants picked it up and I- I-” The words pull tight around his throat, a closing noose of panic, and Tucker can barely breathe.

“Hey, hey,” Wash soothes.

He manoeuvres Tucker around in his lap so he can press both hands to the side of his face. Wash looks him in the eyes, faces so close he can count the freckles. “That’s not what happened. You didn’t hurt anyone here and even if it was Palomo or someone who put it on, it couldn’t happen. You’re got friends looking out for you, Tucker. You’ve got me. Someone would be there to stop you, to help.” A rueful smile breaks across his lips as he strokes Tucker’s cheek. “Besides, I can’t say I wouldn’t have reacted the same way you did, after everything Felix has done.”

Tucker manages a watery laugh. “Nah, man. You would have beat him to death with his own skull.”

Wash frowns slightly. “That doesn’t seem physically possible.”

Any clever response Tucker might have had dies on his lips when Wash’s hands move through his hair, running over his temples and scalp. He moans obscenely, ignoring the Freelancer’s scoff as he lets his head rest on Wash’s shoulder. After a while the shaking stops and his limbs start turning to jelly thanks to those very long, very skilled fingers. He’s not sure if they’ve been sitting like this for minutes or hours. The whole goddamn planet could be getting sucked into a black hole and Tucker wouldn’t give a flying fuck. 

Eventually though, the water starts to run cold and Wash gives him a nudge. “Come on,” he prompts, squeezing his shoulders. “Let’s go to bed.”

Tucker raises his head, wraps his arms around Wash’s neck and kisses him. There’s a small huff of exasperation but Wash indulges him. It’s gentle and effortless; a familiar push and pull and the slow slide of soft lips moving together with well-rehearsed rhythm. Tucker is quite content to stay here and keep kissing Wash forever but when the water starts to border on frigid, the Freelancer pulls away.

“C’mon.”

Wash throws Tucker’s hardsuit over the curtain rod but leaves the armour in a pile to dry on the floor. When he starts stripping off his soaked fatigues as well Tucker can’t resist copping a feel.

“Tucker,” he chides and the sexy way he growls his name really isn’t helping his case.

“Can’t help it Wash,” Tucker counters. “I love a good strip tease.”

The Freelancer rolls his eyes but Tucker does keep his hands to himself long enough to let him ditch his wet clothes. They leave them with the armour and scurry to their room in boxers and towels.

Despite the cooling water at the end, Tucker is still warm and blissed out and completely oblivious to the rearrangement of the furniture in their quarters. That is until he stubs his toe on a bed frame.

“OW! FUCK! SON OF A-” He cuts off the expletive with a long hiss of pain. “I think that hurt more than getting shot. What the fuck is-?”

Tucker stares at the new configuration of their room. Wash’s bed has migrated. The wall where it used to be is vacant and the empty ammo crate/bedside table has been shuffled over to make space for the narrow bunk that’s been pressed against its neighbour on the other side of the room.

“Oh.”

When Tucker looks back, Wash is barely containing a grin, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. This beautiful, goddamn idiot.

Tucker grabs Wash by the arms and kisses him hard as he drags them both down onto their new, improvised double bed. The Freelancer puts up minimal effort to catch himself but Tucker just wrestles him into the mattress. Pinning Wash beneath him, he threads his hands into his shitty bleach blonde hair and kisses him, again and again and again. When he finally pulls back Wash is slick lipped, red faced and so, so fucking beautiful as he beams back at Tucker.

“Dude, I fucking love you.”

And oh shit.

Oh, shit fucking dammit. That’s not what he meant to say. Tucker’s heart stops as he prepares for a very flustered, very awkward reply from Wash and maybe even a suggestion to move their beds apart again. Son of a fucking bitch.

Except Washington says nothing. The wide, starry-eyed and downright  _ reverent  _ look on Wash’s face kick-starts Tucker’s heart once more. The apology dies on his tongue and he does the only logical thing: pretend it didn’t happen.

Hastily leaning down, he presses a chaste kiss to Wash’s lips before rolling off of him. He snuggles down against his shoulder, where Tucker can hide the blush burning across his face like napalm in his veins.

He babbles. It’s all he can do to try for a distraction. “It’s gonna be great dude,” he assures him, keeping his tone light. “We might have to zip tie the frames together or something so you don’t fall through the gap but it’ll be awesome. You won’t regret it.”

There’s a pause that feels like forever, just waiting for the inevitable explosion, but it never comes and eventually he gets a response.

“Okay.”

He can hear Wash smile around the word and it diffuses the active grenade in Tucker’s gut. Letting out a deep breath, he lets himself sink into the mattress. After everything that’s happened, he’s bone tired, dead weight pressed comfortably against the Freelancer sharing his bed. Tucker has no illusions that one little breakdown and make-out session in the shower is going to be enough to get past all this. His dreams will probably be plagued with orange and grey and blood painted armour for months and months.

Still, it’s not so bad. Tucker’s got Wash right here. This freckled fucking force of nature that will stop at nothing to protect his team and his friends, and he’s here in Tucker’s bed. Here to hold him close and keep him safe - even if it’s from his own damned dreams.

And as he’s dozing off, if Tucker catches a barely whispered, “I love you too.”

Well.

That’s just the cherry on top.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading.  
> xoxo~


End file.
